...


The Gal With No Name

Chapter Two
"A Story Untold"


1888
Somewhere in the New Austin deserts...

The sun emerged as a disk the colour of molten iron behind the blood-orange promontories of New Austin, bathing the landscapes with a misty half-light and an airy breeze to complement it. Clusters of bullet-riddled fences, barns, and houses sprawled throughout the clearings with no sign of life— just the ghostly serenity of a barren ranch.

"Sandy Acres," Arthur said, more to himself than to the man riding beside him. "Home of The Riders."

"Where are they?" Dutch asked.

"Dead. Someone beat us to them."

The two vaqueros pressed forth to the heart of the ranch; a two-story house that towered over all the structures in the location, even the barn beside it. Sheriff Jones had advised them of bandits and goons waiting to pounce on them at Sandy Acres, but if The Riders were indeed alive and preparing for an ambush, they certainly didn't show it.

Arthur readied his pistols and patted Boadicea. The winds were eerily quiet for the last two hours— one booming noise was all it takes for his steed to freak out and buck him over.

The Riders had a reputation of being the worst kind of depraved pieces of filth throughout New Austin for the past few years. Their hideout, after all, was originally owned by a humble farmer and his wife— that was, of course, long before they were murdered by Stan Blackwood and his band of crummy outlaws. Now, nobody dared to enter Red Dog Valley without braving a bullet to the head or knife to a throat. But Arthur never really cared. The Van Der Linde Gang was too far out west to even butt heads with The Riders. He and Dutch were only out for the money: 5,000$ for Stan's head alone and a few hundred dollars more if he was brought to the gallows. That was more than enough to feed the gang for several months and invest in some carriages back at camp.

If only money came easier to acquire...

Click.

Arthur flinched. It came from a wooden shed adjacent to the house big enough to hide a readied gunner. The cowboys pointed their six-irons toward the shed with trigger fingers itching to pull, but they were only met with another click.

It soon made sense when Arthur looked down. Blood that started as a pool from the streets transitioned to a sickly trail of crimson that lead to the shed. Arthur cautiously dismounted his horse and walked to the sound. It continued even after a minute.

When he opened the door, Arthur's heart momentarily stopped at the gruesome sight before him. A poor bloodied feller had the barrel of his pistol pressed against his own temple, gloomily pulling the trigger but without a bang. Instead, only the click of an empty weapon rang through the silent desert.

Dutch had followed Arthur and peeked over his shoulder to take a gander at the stranger.

"Jesus," he exclaimed.

At first sight the stranger seemed to don a crimson shirt, but one good look and Arthur's stomach churned as realization set— it was blood. The same blood that dripped from the stranger's forehead, seeping into his eyes to render them blind. He couldn't see the two men watching him attempt a miserable suicide.

"Hey." Arthur shook him. The stranger's revolver fell on the ground. "Hey!"

"H-hello?" the stranger said.

"What the hell happened here?"

"I... I..." he stammered.

Arthur shook his head. Someone had ruined these folks and left. They were too late— either Stan Blackwood, the bounty they're hunting, had died with his men or a posse of bounty-hunters have captured and taken him to Blackwater for his hanging. Both possibilities, however, meant that the two-day trip from Willard's Pass to Sandy Acres were all in vain.

"Cigarette..." the man croaked.

Arthur looked over his shoulder and gestured for Dutch to give him a cigarette. The older man dug out a cheap one from the pocket on his vest and handed it to Arthur, but when the latter turned back to the bleeding stranger, he was already dead. The man's chest was frozen. All Arthur could do was shake his head once more and stand up, ready to start a new journey West to head to camp where their people awaited the both of them.

"Let's head back," Arthur said. "This little adventure is done."

"Ho-hey, son," Dutch protested. "We ain't done here yet."

"Stan's probably dead or in a jail cell in Blackwater! Now I don't know what's gone in your mind to even pursue a bounty in the first place, but this is over. I'm never going to be a bounty-hunter, and neither should you."

If Arthur's face wasn't badly sunburned, one could mistake it for a show of red rage. Two days they have been searching for Stan Blackwood. If the camp wasn't struggling financially, then they would have no need to try to bounty hunt. Alas, fate seemed to have other plans.

"Then we should at least make it worthwhile. Let us loot this ranch. I'm sure The Riders have much to share."

A great idea. For a moment, Arthur berated himself for wanting to go home as quick as possible. As much as he loathed this little job of desperation for the Van der Linde gang, he knew that putting it all to waste was a bad idea. Besides, a shade from the sun wouldn't be such a bad thing...

Dutch walked first to the house's oak door. Like everything else in the god-forsaken ranch, testaments of a messy shootout riddled the wood's facade like polka dots on a dress. Sandy Acres was a warzone. A few more of this sight, then walking through the battlefields of the Civil War would look no different. Dutch and Arthur paused for a moment as they examined the dark interiors lit only be the few rays of sun that penetrated the windows. Particles danced through the empty furniture and messy blood-red splotches plastered the walls.

When Arthur finally let his person fully inside the house, he heard another click.

This time, it was louder. Nearer. It was the sound of a hammer being cocked behind them.

The pair froze.

"Put. Your hands. Up."

Arthur and Dutch obeyed. They didn't have time to marvel at the fact that the voice sounded like it came from a woman. Arthur looked to a broken mirror above the fireplace, perfectly framing the stranger that had caught them. 'She' was hiding on the shadows beside the door.

"Good afternoon, Miss," Dutch greeted. Slowly, the duo turned around to meet the stranger. "Now, let's not do anything irrational..."

No response came. Arthur squinted. Through the dusty haze, he adjusted his vision to scrutinize within the dark and better saw the woman, as well as the apparel she donned. Brown hat. Black duster. Crimson collar that matched the blood of the dead Riders, and penetrating blue eyes that shone through the shadows. One thing was for certain: she looked too clean and bloodless to be a part of them.

Arthur wanted to pull out a gun, but he thought better when the woman drew another revolver from her belt and aimed it the young man. Now both of them were held at gunpoint.

"We're just here to check out the commotion," Arthur said.

"Yer here for Stan Blackwood," the stranger said in a tangy Southern accent. "Ain't I right?"

"Just... put the gun down, miss?" Dutch said.

"No. You put yer gun down, mister. I'm outnumbered."

Arthur looked to Dutch. "At least she's honest."

"Shut up!"

Two revolvers hit the wooden floorboards with an echoing thud. Arthur mentally winced. Unarmed and staring down the barrel of a gun... the tables seemed to turn on them as quick as gravity pulled down their weapons.

"Now kick them towards the kitchen." the stranger cocked her head to the left; the direction where Arthur and Dutch's guns ended up.

"Miss, you can have the bounty," Arthur said. "He's yours, fair and square."

The stranger finally stepped forward into the light— still aiming her guns— and flashed an intimidating scowl. She looked like a doll-turned-sharpshooter. With her blonde locks roped to a braid, wet lips stubbornly contrasting a mad frown, and elegant eyes that shot daggers of glass and steel, it was hard for Arthur to see the worst of man in her, even if she looked the part with her dirty duster and sand-marred boots.

"Blackwood ain't here. His friend Carlos was kind enough to tell me about Stan's trip from Lemoyne."

The only sign of Carlos was his motionless arm, and his body covered up by an overturned cabinet just down the hallway.

"You killed Carlos Menendez?" Dutch asked.

Carlos Menendez was Stan Blackwood's right hand man. Arthur frowned. He wanted to deny it, the plausibility of a question. If Carlos was dead and so was his decadent henchmen, was this stranger responsible for their death? For the bloodbath? Surely, a woman alone couldn't do this...

"What does it look like?" the stranger said. Her alto voice sung raspy but mellow.

"Well, it's clear you're not to be messed with, miss."

The woman eyed them both for a second time, but her shoulders seemed to calm. Then, without ever letting her guard down, she turned around and looked to the landscapes outside the broken window.

"The Riders ride by groups of five," the stranger said. Then, she turned her gaze back to the two men. "So I assume you're not one of 'em."

"That... That is right," Dutch assured. "Were you... responsible for the bloodbath here in this fine ranch?"

"It doesn't matter, because we'll be joinin' those dead bodies if we ain't quick enough."

Arthur furrowed his eyebrows. "What do you mean?"

"Look, today, Stan Blackwood will not be sending five men. He'll be sending an army."

The blonde paused.

"After he found out he's been in every bounty poster in New Austen, he's been riling up all the degenerates he could hire West of the Mississippi, and any minute now he and his men will be riding to Sandy Acres for god-knows-what. Now once he finds us here with his dead men?"

"He'll kill us," Dutch said. "Jesus."

The blonde holstered her pistols. "Now get on yer horses."

"..."

The two men looked at each other with a flash of confusion.

"Quick!"

They shuffled to go outside. In a moment of hesitation, Arthur attempted to walk to the kitchen to get his revolver back, but he was quickly stopped by the stranger with a quick 'ehem' and a hard stomp on the floorboards. Scoffing, he followed Dutch out the front door and mounted on Boadicea's leather saddle.

This blonde was a ruckus. She just ordered them down to flee away from the ranch— without ever letting them to loot the place either. Now Arthur was sure it was all in vain. For all he knew, Stan Blackwood was on the second floor hogtied or unconscious.

But the story checks out. Sheriff Jones had already told them about Blackwood's background, and how he's been recruiting guns from up North throughout the Frontier for the past few months. Going to Sandy Acres was a gamble in itself— Deputy Dawson and all the lawmen in Tumbleweed never guaranteed Stan's presence in their hideout, only his cronies. Even with that, Dutch still had high hopes to secure the pay for a good day's work.

When Arthur plopped down on top of his horse he gazed another look at the ranch. Just like when they first rode into Sandy Acres, bodies still sprawled throughout the land, but his questions to how that happened might've been somewhat answered.

"Arthur," Dutch said. " Look."

Arthur shifted his gaze to the main road they once went. The blonde had knelt to the ground with a fistful of dynamite, dug out a small hole, and buried the bundle of nitroglycerine in the sand.

"Hey Blondie!" Arthur came up with a name. "What're you doing?"

"A trap," she exclaimed. Then she whistled for her horse— a bay roan Mustang— and swiftly mounted it once it emerged from behind the bullet-riddled house. She jangled her spurs, put her hands on the reigns, and made way to Arthur and Dutch. The blonde opened her mouth to speak but ultimately paused in a short show of surprise.

Two barrels of Lancaster repeaters— both pointing towards her noggin.

"I'm sorry, miss," Arthur said, cocking the repeater. "But we came here for Stan Blackwood."

Dutch smirked and readied his repeater as well. Both bounty-hunters just waited for an opportunity to bring out their guns and corner the woman now that their revolvers were inside the house. This gal was a fool. She should've known not to fall for abiding strangers. The tables have turned once again— now she was the one to be the center of attention.

"You're makin' a big mistake," said Blondie.

"What the hell were you expectin'?" Arthur laughed. Dutch joined his jovial act and shook his head. "That we're just gonna up and trust you?"

"But, to be fair, Arthur, the excuse was magnificent. Not as magnificent as a con man's, but it is quite there," Dutch added. "You shoulda' shot us when you had the chance."

Women never belonged in the sea of degenerates, Arthur thought. Likely, this gal had the idea that she could be a gunslinger and endure the ways of the West like one of them Otis Miller books. She could never be any more wrong. Her wits were quick and her words sometimes persuasive, but this blunder of naivety had no place in the Frontier.

Blondie hung her head low.

"Aww, it's okay, miss," Arthur said. "We'll give you a cut of the bounty when—"

Arthur wasn't able to finish his sentence when something sucked the life out of his lungs.

Atop the hill overlooking the ranch, the silhouette of a lone horseman stood still. A rifle protruded out his figure, resting on his knee. He was watching them.

At first, the thought of an Indian crossed Arthur's mind, but when two more horsemen emerged from the hill all carrying rifles and similar-looking hats, it hit him like a sudden jolt.

"Holy Mother Mary," said Dutch.

Another horseman arose. Then another. Then another. Then at last, at least thirty-five gun-toting cowboys crept up on the hill, eyeing them like cornered prey.

Blondie sighed. "I told you."

Arthur had no time to think. He immediately grabbed a hold of the reigns and squeezed Boadicea lightly on the girth, nudging her to run as fast a horse can run.

"HYAH!"


Present Day

"Woah, woah, woah," Mary-Beth interrupted. She whirled her head towards the better part of the camp and called out a name. "Hosea!"

Arthur smiled and shook his head. Hosea, after putting something in the donation box, caught the red-head's attention and curiously walked to the main table with an eyebrow raised. Mary-Beth, Lenny, Arthur, and Sadie were all sitting around the table looking at him as if he was wearing a pound of golden neckwear.

"Er, what seems to be the problem?"

"No problem, Hosea," Lenny said. "Since Dutch is out there doing Dutch things, I and Mary-Beth just wanted to ask you something."

"What?" Hosea said. "Arthur, what have you been telling them?"

"He doesn't know anything about it," Arthur said.

Mary-Beth immediately cut him off. "What did Dutch and Arthur do at the summer of 1888?"

Hosea thought for a moment, but simply shrugged after a second worth of thinking. "I don't quite remember. It was so long ago. All I remember is Bessie setting a house on fire after a bear attacked us in our sleep. Hehe, good times. We never returned to Nokopar Glades— that place was infested with all sorts of critters out for your blood."

"Hmm, okay. You've told us that about a million times. What about Arthur and Dutch, did they do anything in 1888?"

Hosea looked at Arthur.

"Well, I do remember them leaving camp for some 'job opportunities'," Hosea recalled. "Said they were thinking of doing bounty-hunting for the first time. Of course, I thought it was absurd because we never—"

"Oh my goodness!" Mary-Beth squealed, getting the attention of a few camp members. "So it's true!?"

Lenny scoffed and laughed. "Maybe it's greatly exaggerated."

"Yeah, that's what storytellers tend to do," Mary-Beth said.

Arthur tapped a fist on the table, ringing out several thuds. These people were too interested in his story that Arthur was already tired, but he supposed he could hold out for a little while. Then, he'll check out the commotion with the Braithwaithes.

"You know, I'm starting to question if you people really wanna hear this story or y'all just wanna yammer about the summer of 1888."

A few aww's proclaimed around the table.

"Come on, Arthur, we got all day!" Lenny said. "Now how the hell did you manage to escape forty armed men?"

"Escape is not really the term to describe it..."


Twelve hooves scrambled out the ranch and into the pale-yellow expanse of the deserts, with dust kicking out like a comet trail as Arthur, Dutch, and the woman urged their horses to go faster and faster. At the drop of a hat, everything went from a minor confrontation to a full-blown disaster that might bring an end to their exploits in the West— perhaps, as Arthur feared, permanently. He wasn't ready to die. Sweat cascaded down his forehead as his legs squeezed tighter for Boadicea to gallop faster.

This is bad. Really bad.

Arthur looked behind him. The ranch was still in view. Several horsemen poured down the slopes and into the properties like water flooding Sandy Acres. They mercilessly trampled the bodies and jumped over fences. They were out for blood. When the inevitable comes and they get captured, Arthur was more than ready to put all the blame on Blondie. After all, Arthur and Dutch had just arrived here for less than half an hour... but something tells him that The Riders will not stop to listen.

Blondie was leading the pack. Suddenly, she jerked the reins back and her horse skid to a sloppy halt. Arthur simply brushed past her. Curious, he looked over his shoulder to see what had caused the mysterious lady to stop.

Blondie pulled out a rifle from her horse like a knight sheathing out his sword, then, using her left arm to support and steady the Springfield, aimed towards the army of Riders. She pulled the trigger. What followed was a pop in the air, then a distant boom that faintly shook the ground. Arthur watched as an explosion and a plum of smoke rose from the middle of the ranch, right where the blonde planted the dynamite. Horses were petrified, some fell over from the force of the shockwave and some bucked their owners off the saddle.

Arthur pressed on. More of them remained.

It wasn't enough to deter the Riders.

"Hyah!" Arthur gritted his teeth. The Count was leading now, and he had to squint as dust and sand bombard his face. The blinding sun didn't help either.

It took a while for Blondie to catch up the duo. When Boadicea and Blondie's horse came neck-to-neck, their respective owners looked over to their back to see what the Riders were up to, and how far they are before reaching shooting distance.

It wasn't any better.

Dozens of horsemen lined up as several more gunshots rang through the morning air. Arthur didn't know if they were shooting at him or to the skies as a form of intimidation, but it only made his stomach turn.

"Goddamn it," he cursed. Then, he turned to Blondie.

Her face was deadpan. She was leaning forward, seemingly unfazed with the events as she maintained a stern stare towards the horizons.

"Blondie!" Arthur exclaimed. As disrespectful it was to call a stranger a made-up name, common courtesy was thrown out the window when his life is in danger. "Where are we going!?"

Blondie said something, but Arthur couldn't discern the words even with her lips moving.

"Speak up!"

"There's a train!" said Blondie louder. "If we keep going straight, we can catch up to a train!"

Arthur cursed under his breath. What the hell is a train good for? The Riders could just board it, kill the conductor, and kill them last. But he supposed he'll have to take anything in an attempt to get out if this hairy situation.

Stan Blackwood was crazy. Insane. That many men under his wing... How could such a man afford to even do so?

As the three cut through the desert plains, Arthur wished his horse could go faster. His body rocked up and down with every gallop and sprint. His butt started to hurt.

They continued their escape.

Finally, Arthur caught a glance of a dozen black figures accelerating through the deserts. The very front had smoke billowing from a chimney... Arthur knew it that was a locomotive hauling boxcars. He grinned, but not for long as he felt a bullet whiz past his skin within a hair's breadth. His heart skipped a beat. That could've burrowed through his back and gone through his chest...

"Train!" Dutch shouted. "Let's go, NOW!"

"Hyah!" Arthur spurred Boadicea for a faster sprint with his heel, as the reins cracked through the chase. Just a little longer, and his horse would be roaming without him— either because he gets shot, or he manages to catch a ride on the steel beast.

Looking behind him once again, Arthur saw the Riders relentlessly continuing their pursuit. He could only see their faint silhouettes as dust sputtered from the hooves of Arthur's horse, creating some sort of smokescreen that wasn't enough to completely make the trio disappear.

Then, the rapid chugging of steel and gears drew nearer and defeaning. Dutch was the first one to line his horse up with the carriages. He dismounted the saddle to jump. He grabbed on a protruding ledge like his life defended on it— because it did. Next, Blondie jumped to the bundler and coupler between two carriages. Her horse careened away with no one on the saddle.

It was Arthur's turn. With one last pat on Boadicea's neck, Arthur kicked off the stirrups from his feet to dismount the saddle. Then, he lunged forward to catch the train's rear balcony. His hand almost slipped, but in the end, he managed to land on the floor chest-first. He felt for his revolver, ready to shoot at the Riders trailing behind.

Then he remembered where it was. On some stupid kitchen in Sandy Acres. Arthur cursed loudly and stood up as he watched Boadicea, along with the Lancaster strapped on her saddle, decelerate in front of the army in pursuit. Under his breath, he wished her good luck and stomped deeper into the train.

Blondie was inside the second-last boxcar, along with a disheveled Dutch Van der Linde on her side. For a moment, they took the time to process it all before springing back up to action. It wasn't over yet.

"Arthur, right?" Blondie asked. "The train is heading to a town called 'Boothill'. I reckon the conductor won't stop the train even with bandits on board, so the lawmen can intercept the—"

Her words were cut off when Arthur shoved her to a cabinet. Her back shook the furniture and it rattled as plates and cans fell from the counter.

"You had our guns!" he exclaimed.

"That's your problem to take care off."

"Why you—"

"HEY!" a voice shouted. It was neither Dutch's nor Blondie's— it was from a guard standing on a flatcar. His double-barrel laid ready on his hands.

"Gentleman!" Dutch said. "We are in a predicament here... Can you lend us a hand?"

"You ain't robbin' this train!" the guard shouted.

"We ain't robbin' the train!" Arthur said. "We're here to defend it from the army of bandits chasing it, you fool!"

The guard furrowed his eyebrows under that flatcap he wore.

"Then why are you—"

Before he could finish his sentence, his neck spurted out a horrifying splatter of red. Droplets of blood sprayed his mustached face from his collar bone, then, he stumbled towards the railing and tipped over the rolling landscape— leaving only his double barrel on the floor. It was like he wasn't even there.

Arthur grimaced and pursed his lips. His eyes caught a glimmering revolver on his friend's holster. "Blondie, can I borrow your gun?"

Two sounds boomed at that moment: a hard 'NO' and a couple more gunshots emitting from both left and right side of the carriage. Arthur ducked as three bullets broke through the small window of the freight and left a steel mark in front of him. Blondie drew her gun and fired blindly outside as a response. Dutch, on the other hand, dove towards the double barrel and took cover behind the wooden crates that bordered the flatcar.

"For Christ's sake, I need a gun!" Arthur whispered to himself.

"Let's get out of here before they board the train," Blondie said. As if on cue, she pointed her Schofield at Arthur. "Duck!"

Arthur bent his knees and back as another bullet zoomed above his head, courtesy of Blondie. He looked to the car's balcony where he had initially hopped on the train. A pool of red started on the Rider's chest and he fell on his face motionless.

The blonde scoffed. "You want a gun? Get his!"

Without a second wasted, Arthur scuttled towards the dead Rider and snatched the revolver from his hand. With his person near the doorway, he caught a better glimpse of the outside— a terrifying one. Multiple horsemen on pursuit had inadvertently compromised his position, viciously giving chase with guns aimed and ready to shoot.

Arthur took cover, but not with a few shots first. The only good news on his belt were extra bullets for the stolen gun. He ran to the flatcar and took cover beside Dutch and Blondie.

"What's the plan?" he asked to Dutch.

"I haven't thought that far ahead, son."

"You always have a plan!"

A warcry proclaimed through the sizzling air as a gunman hopped on board the flatcar.

Bang! rang Dutch's double barrel. The gunman heaved backwards from the force of the pellets.

"One down, and about dozens more to go," Dutch said.

They carefully inched towards the next car, where they could get shielded better by the rain of bullets. Only barrels, wooden boxes, and the flat decked railroad car's sturdy barriers protected them from certain death. Arthur ambled inside the cargo hold where the air was earthy and dank. He looked forward where several doorways framed a clear path to the coal reserves of the steam locomotive at the very front of the train.

Blondie almost stumbled over him.

Looking beyond the flatcar's railings, several more rifle-wielding Riders kept firing but missing. A good portion of them had left their horses and started their climb to the train with great haste.

For the first time, the trio had stopped huddling together with guns drawn, for Dutch still hasn't entered the next boxcar with Arthur and Blondie. He remained pinned down from the behind crates, his cover slowly dwindling with each bullet.

"Dutch!" he cried. "Get the hell over here!"

Dutch met Arthur's gaze. He nodded with great urgency. As quick as he could, he stood up and ran towards Arthur and Blondie with the double barrel slung over his shoulders. Arthur was ready to pull him towards safety when a lasso caught Dutch by the upper torso.

There was a pregnant pause.

Arthur's face turned pale with horror. His first instinct was to shoot the rope off, but Dutch's body was yanked to the side, and he was inevitably dragged off the train on to the rolling hard gravel.

"DUTCH!" His scream was worthless.


A/N: The scale of New Austin in the game is not matched here. RDR2's map is only a representation of very big states, and because this medium can better represent the actual size of the Frontier, just imagine that the New Austin deserts area much much larger (about the size of Texas or Arizona). I reckon we'll get to explore more states other than New Austin and maybe dip into New Hanover or beyond Tumbleweed, where more fictional and real locations will pop up.

I decided to continue this project because I kept thinking about it. I was actually ready to abandon it. Hopefully, this update will bring it back to RDR2's FF Frontpage and more people get to see it :)